


The Little Eternity

by Victorian_Asylum



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Make Kate Happy 2k15, Mostly Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:17:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victorian_Asylum/pseuds/Victorian_Asylum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer is sweet and young and so are you and you'll remember this forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, no one died in this, so that's something.
> 
> Still shit at characterization though.

She tastes like spring, fresh tulips and rain showers and gentle winds. She is soft and hesitant when she kisses you and you think this is the perfection art strives for.

You aren't sure you've ever really loved before. In different ways yes, to different people, but never like this. Never in the way that makes your heart balloon and feels like a carnival inside your chest, laughter and eternal youth and cotton candy smiles. So, yes, you love her, and that is all that you can say.

She holds your hand like she holds her bible, gently and reverently because it's precious and meaningful and she doesn't want to let go. She can carry her bible anywhere, but not you. Not you. In a few short months you will both be on opposite sides of the country and this summer needs to last forever.

You both have graduated and the world is open and beautiful like never before, and Blackwell lets you stay in the dorms because neither of you quite wants to go home. Arcadia has been bad to you both but you are so good to each other.

There are flowers in the field that whisper to you, and the stars are as bright as her eyes. Her head is on your shoulder and your fingers are laced. They won't be untied. There is a cross on her ring and it glows in the moonlight. She smiles softly, content but not tired. Music is in her veins and the rhythm keeps her awake. "I've always wanted to learn the constellations," she says.    

You never really cared much about the stars, only in abstract ways, with their insurmountable distance and the vastness of the universe and how no one really knows anything at all except that we’re here and the stars are out there. And sometimes they die, because, well, all things die in the end. And chances are the stars everyone looks at are already dead, but even in death there is comfort, even in loneliness there is something. Even things that are far away can shine bright in the night. Really, space is just one long, expanding stretch of infinite hope and rebirth, and you wish you could frame it in a picture that conveys all the emotions inside. Tuck the Polaroid in your pocket for snowy days and set the stars against the white, because she may be far away but not far away enough that you can’t see her glow.

“I don’t know how anyone picks constellations apart,” you say. “They all look the same.” You’re just looking inside your own galaxy or out into the reaches of space. All stars look the same from earth. Everyone looks at the same visible universe, no matter where they are. Maybe that’s the only thing anyone has in common, they’re all inside the same rotating galaxy and they all are made of stardust.

“Look,” she points upwards, and her face is alight with a grin. She is so beautiful like this. So young and hopeful and exactly as she should be, free from the sadness and the messiness and everything that made life too hard. “Shooting star. Make a wish.”

You look at her and she looks at you, and you know she’s thinking the exact same thing. You both want this summer to last forever.

.

.

.

You take a little vacation to an amusement park an hour and a half away. To your surprise, you discover that she is a roller coaster fiend. And you are very much a wimp. But love makes you crazy and you’ll try anything once (or three times, puppy eyes be damned). She laughs all the way down the tracks, and you scream and scream and hold her hand captive in a strangle hold. She isn’t satisfied until all the coasters have been conquered, and then it’s your chance to choose the ride, so you pick the log ride to get your revenge. She sits behind you and puts her face between your shoulder blades. It is a bad day to be wearing makeup.

Still, you end up getting soaked the most, but she comes out with her hair dripping and the water is positively freezing, so you both sit on a bench in the sun until you are passably dry. Her makeup only runs a little. You wait until you don’t look quite so much like a drowned cat and then convince her to go on a silo ride that uses centrifugal force to keep everyone stuck to the walls while the floor drops out. Thankfully, no one pukes, but you step off the ride and walk a swaying line until you aren’t so dizzy anymore. She nearly tips over and you stumble to catch her and somehow you both end up on the ground and this is so much better than being drunk. Both of you are smiling and you don't even care that you are sunburnt to hell and back. You can't resist stealing a kiss and her flushed cheeks aren't from the heat.

There are more rides, three bottles of overpriced water and a shared cup of Dip n’ Dots, and when you end up on the ferris wheel, it is already dark and the entire park is lit with colorful bulbs. It is an odd sense of magic that floats around. This is truly summer. You are at the edge of the rest of your life. There are nothing but roads in front of you. All of them, eventually, lead back to her. You can feel this moment branding itself onto your heart like these humid months have been. Your camera isn’t with you for safety reason, so you make do with your phone. In the end, it comes out with the look of fairy lights spread across acres of ground a carnival that never ends. You’ve never felt closer to the stars than when the car stop at the top and it was just you and her against the sky.

She is warm against you and you are kind of sweaty and gross but everything is really wonderful and it amazes you how it all turned out well in the end.

.

.

.

Neither of you really like to swim, and the ocean is cold, even in the summer, but, you plan a picnic on the beach. It is a little cloudy and windy, but it’s an excuse to curl up under blankets.

You admit, it's a little sad, if you really think about it, because this is last time in a long time that you and her will be sitting on Oregon sand, listening to Oregon waves under an Oregon sky. More importantly, it's the last time in a long time you'll be doing it together. No one knows quite what the future holds. If this tender, flowery thing you have with survive the miles apart. If it will still seem as sugary sweet. And you're scared. And she's scared. But you and her know how to act brave and sometimes that bravery isn't just a front. You're willing to fight for this and take it where it may go. Even if it falls apart you will still be friends forever, at least. And that's enough, because she is here right now and she is warm and lovely and if this is just one big bubblegum world you're going to hold her until it pops and then some.

"I'm nervous," she admits. "I don't know what will happen at college."

"Great things," you say. "Just give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle."

This earns a honeyed laugh from her that is sugar all through your blood. It's all good, really, you've talked at length about what you and her want and what your futures look like. Communication is top notch. Still, that doesn't make the thought of parting any easier, so you say, "Honestly though, you'll do just fine. You're smart and you've got a good heart."

"What if there are people like Victoria? Or..." She doesn't finish. She doesn't need to.

"There will always be people like them. But Blackwell is a fish bowl. It forces you to see them daily. College will be bigger. Better. You'll be safe. And you'll meet so many good people. People like you. Like me. And we'll kick the asses of anyone who tries to hurt you."

"If they're people like me, then that's not very Jesus-like."

"Hell hath no fury like a girlfriend defending her one and only. And so it was done, thus spake the lord."

"Is that so? I don't remember that in the bible."

"It's there," you say. "In the canticle of... Maximus."

"There are no canticles in the bible." She smiles at you, that butterfly smile like diamonds and rubies, luminous and pure, even though you've probably blasphemed enough to give an old nun a heart attack. "But, thank you. You have no idea what that means to me."

"Anytime. Just remember, wherever you are, there's not a state in the country I won't be able to call you at."

Her look says it all. You want to frame it and hang it in a museum. You want to tattoo it to the inside of your ribs. You want to set in stone like the Romans and Greeks. God, you are such an insufferably romantic dork, but she brings out so much more than the best in you. You understand now, the concept of marriage. Of caring for someone so deeply that even a lifetime isn't enough. Growing old by the sea sounds so wonderful. But you are young now, and you and her are going to take the world and make it into a necklace. Together you two are so, so brave.

Everything is different and good and so poetic it hurts. But the tide is playful and the waves like to sabotage, so it tries to capture you both. The water is freezing as it pools over your legs and soaks her tights. She gasps and chokes out a laugh and you kind of yell and drag her away by her arms until you and her are in the sand and safe from the ocean. Her head is on your stomach and it bounces with your laughter, and there are worse ways to ruin a moment.

.

.

.

Her rabbit bites you, once, and it is entirely your fault because you scared him and picked him up wrong and by now you should know better. Still, she is fussing over your wound. An understatement really, all it does is ache and your finger is hardly bleeding now. A bandaid and it should be fine. But she insists on cleaning it and disinfecting it before she covers it. She kisses the cut, for swift healing, and you blush to your ears because good lord, people like her should be illegal. They only exist once in a lifetime and you won’t ever find someone so kind and selfless and entirely too good for this world again. She is the kind of person one holds onto, like a diamond ring taken to the grave.

You coax the bunny out of his cage, slowly, with a treat, and he snuffles your hand, takes his reward and darts back to safety, so you assume that’s the animal equivalent of an apology. Or you will interpret it as such, anyway.

After a while, you ask her to play her violin, and, after a moment of hesitation, she obliges. She claims she is a little rusty, but it seems like a lie. You can’t tell the difference. It is literal magic to your ears, a sort of fairy dust in your lungs, you understand why some people dedicate their lives to these instruments of beauty. The song is somber and bittersweet, tugs at the heart in all the right ways. You could swear by classical music, you think.

In return, you fetch your guitar, sit awkwardly on her bed and try to think of a song to play. All you know are melancholy things best saved for autumn nights and foggy mornings. You’ve never played in front of someone before. It has been a leisurely activity until now. You’ve never sung either, for someone, so you might be really, really bad. Like, ear bleeding bad. But she is looking at you like you could never, ever fuck up, so you take a breath, a start the most heartfelt and soulful love song you can think of.

It can’t be so bad, if it feels this good.

.

.

.

You knew this day would come. You just thought it would sting a little less.

For an international airport, it sure feels empty and small. You kind of stand there in the middle of all the passing people, like this moment is suspended in time or something from a movie. Everyone else is moving fast and things are slow inside this little sphere of safety. Your plane will be leaving soon and so will hers and you know how nervous she gets if she isn’t on time. Your hands are sweaty and hers are cold but you hold them like this can give you just a few more days of that rich, sweet summer that has sustained your dreams and hopes.  “The world is an awfully big place,” you say, watch her eyes, the little flecks of gold that are most prominent in the noon sun. “Don’t forget to hold your head up high, ‘cause the world’s gotta make room for Kate Marsh.”

She smiles. Her forehead is on yours and maybe this will be enough for now. “Yeah.”

“I won’t be too far. Call me or text me or email me or send smoke signals. I’ll get it.”

“I’m just a little scared.” Her phone buzzes. An alarm. There isn’t much time. “I don’t know what to do.”

"Neither do I. I think you just look super awkward and confused until you find somewhere vaguely cozy to settle into, and you play your violin and read some books and claim a land for your own. Before you know it, you’ll be home. You’ll make a home.” God, if someone could hear you now, you would never live it down. You are the poster child of too cheesy romance. Who knew? "Right? That sounds right."

“I never thought you were such an optimist.”

“Someone made me believe in the best of things.”

She laughs at that and looks a little like she’s going to cry, so you pull her in, put your arms around her waist and she puts her arms across your neck. “That better not be any hypocrisy,” she tells you. “You’ve got to take your own advice and be brave too. No more hiding in the shadows.”

Another alarm. Damn you flight times. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Someone has to, or nothing gets done.” She pulls away, kisses you once, shy, still nervous around all these people, and then you sort of blink and she’s out of sight and you’re on a plane and the summer is really over. You put your head on the window and watch the clouds, hold your camera in your hands for reassurance. Your heartbeat is wild and self doubt is creeping in, but you’ve grown a lot during the year and you are not the same person anymore. So you take a picture, flip it over, and write.

_This is just the beginning._


End file.
